


The Day Deaky Died

by AteYellowPaint



Series: Joger Week 2021 [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Partners grieving together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29208642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint
Summary: The fame, the fortune, the crowds, the accolades - none of it will convince him to stay. Roger knows this. That doesn’t make it any easier.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: Joger Week 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136810
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23
Collections: Joger Week 2021





	The Day Deaky Died

**Author's Note:**

> So I did something a little different with this story and wrote it in the second person through Roger’s point of view. I don’t typically use this tense in writing, but I think it really captures the essence of profound grief and how it makes you feel detached from your own sense of self, like you’re observing your own life as a spectator rather than living it. So, I know it’s a little jarring at first, but I hope I managed to pull it off.
> 
> So here is day 5 of Joger week using the prompt “John quits Queen”. Also, even though John didn’t officially retire from music until 1997, I’m counting the 1992 Tribute Concert as the day John quit Queen since it was the last full-length concert he played with Queen.

He doesn’t need to tell you. You know as soon as you catch his eye in the middle of _Who Wants to Live Forever_.

After twenty years together, you know how to read him; you have a silent language. After all, you are the rhythm section; the two of you built your careers off of a wordless give and take.

Or really, truly, you already knew.

You’ve known since the diagnosis that this day would eventually come to pass. You tried to ignore it; hoped that if you pretended well enough, it would never come. But that was a fool’s errand. It always was.

You watch as John turns back to face the audience. He doesn’t bop around anymore: he doesn’t dance or spin or click his heels along to the beat. He goes through the motions like a marionette on a string. It’s almost as if an intrinsic part of him was ripped out, torn up, and stomped into the ground.

If you think back, you can remember the exact moment it happened. It wasn’t the day Freddie died, like most people would assume. No, it was months before.

It was the very last time John saw Freddie - that was almost a year ago, now. The two of you went to his home and had tea in his living room. John started messing around on the piano while you and Freddie chatted about anything and everything except that God-forsaken illness. You knew why John was doing it. He couldn’t pretend as well as you. He needed a distraction. You could see the tears he was doing his best to hold back. You both knew what would happen if they fell.

And then you heard it. A falter in the music. A sniffle. And just like that, Freddie snapped.

You understand why Freddie did it. He loathed the tears, loathed the reminder that things were coming to an end. But most of all, he couldn't bear to see his little brother in pain, knowing it would only get worse, knowing he was powerless to do a thing about it. You know that powerlessness all too well.

You don’t blame him, but all the same, you had to watch the hope flicker out in John’s eyes, like Freddie himself had blown out the flame.

And with that, Deaky - your Deaky - was gone. The boy who blushed the first time you kissed him, the boy who laughed maniacally when he got a picture of you in your underpants backstage, the boy stayed out dancing until 6 AM and went for drunk jogs and giggled over stupid dick jokes: he’s gone.

The John that remains - your John - is angry and sad and empty. It’s the worst on those quiet days at home when there’s nothing to distract him. You often catch him staring into the distance, his task abandoned until you snap him back into the present. And while you love him all the same, you can’t help but grieve for Deaky. You see flickers of him sometimes - that bright spark of mischief break through the haze in his eyes, and you hang on to those moments desperately. Maybe one day he’ll come back to you, maybe if you try enough spells and potions and prayers, you can resurrect him. Maybe.

But for now, you keep on drumming, because it’s all you can do. From one song to the next, you put everything into it, because maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that spark again, you’ll find that missing piece that shows John the magic and convinces him to stay.

You know that won’t happen.

But you keep on all the same.

And before you know it, the concert is over. Because time, you’ve learned, is cruel. It took away your youth, it took away Freddie, and it took away the sparkle in John’s eye; and still it marches steadily on, dragging you along with it kicking and screaming, your pleas for one more moment falling on deaf ears.

You can’t stop time.

So instead, you get up from your drum kit and go to the front of the stage to take your bow. You wrap your arm around John and hold on tight. If time won’t listen, maybe he will.

 _I’m here_ , you tell him with a squeeze of his waist, _please don’t leave, I’m right here. I need you._

And then the bows are done and you go backstage. John disappears while you’re talking to some other musicians, as he is wont to do. You know where he is, so you excuse yourself from the conversation to find him.

You stand in front of the dressing room door, your hand in a fist, ready to knock, but you can’t make yourself do it just yet. When you open that door, it will be over. You drop your fist and let your forehead rest on the door, eyes cast down to the floor. Your shoes are dirty. You should get them cleaned.

No more stalling.

You raise your first again and you knock. When you open the door, John is standing at the makeup counter. You meet his eyes in the mirror. They’re glassy with unshed tears. You hear the tinkling piano. You hear the falter. You hear the sniffle.

You hear, “I’m sorry.”

As soon as John says it, his tears start to fall. You finally remember how to move. You close the door and in an instant you’re across the room. You hop up on the makeup counter and gather John in your arms. You wrap your legs around him too for good measure; you want to keep him as close as you possibly can.

John wraps his arms around your neck and collapses his weight into you. You let him. You let him do whatever he needs to do because it _hurts_ to see him like this.

You could scream. A year ago you might have; but today you hold him, you let him cry into your shirt and you rub his back. And you squeeze him a little tighter because that’s what _you_ need right now.

“I just can’t do it without him, Rog.” John’s voice is cracked and rough from where it’s buried at the crook of your neck.

“I know, love,” you say and kiss his shoulder.

“Who are we even kidding?” John says as he lifts his head up to meet you. His face is puffy and tear tracks stain his cheeks. You brush away the dampness with your fingers. “We aren’t Queen without Freddie. I feel like I’m spitting in his face playing without him.”

You don’t agree, but it’s useless to argue. John is the youngest. He’s been with Queen - the four of you together - since he was a teenager. And you know the bond he shares - shared - with Freddie; everything he’s written he composed with Freddie’s voice in mind. To John, losing Freddie was like losing a piece of himself.

“I know, love,” you say again.

You sit John on the couch and run a towel under the tap. You curl up next to John and gently press the cool rag to his face. You murmur words of strength and encouragement. Rambling, really. You aren’t sure of what exactly comes out of your mouth, but it seems to help.

“Don’t tell Brian yet,” John says after a while. “He needs this.”

“It’s not my place,” you assure.

You grab John’s hand and drop your head onto his shoulder. Whenever John is ready, the two of you will walk out of the dressing room, out of the stadium and into the spring air. You will go home and John will take a shower and probably make some tea. You’ll read your book with your legs thrown over John’s lap until you both get sleepy and go to bed. And John will snore and you’ll shove him in his sleep to get him to stop. And the two of you will wake up tomorrow morning and figure it out from there.

But for now, you stare at the gray cinder blocks of the dressing room wall and trace familiar circles onto John’s leg. For once, you don’t count the minutes as they pass. You focus on John’s steady breathing and you let the time slip by. Everything must come to an end and you’re so, so tired of fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much for reading. I very much appreciate it since I know this isn't everyone's cup of tea. My last two stories for Joger week aren't so sad I promise <3


End file.
